You’re in the Maya, Neo: Philosphy of Yoga and Therapy

Sarva is sitting on the floor just under the long wall of windows – outside, the view is still of deep fog. She’s wearing all white, and her gold hair cascades on her shoulders.

I have troubles breathing when I sit down. I focus on not judging myself for it.

She greets us with a namaste, and recites a mantra in Hindi. For the second mantra, we repeat after her. Three Oms, three Shantis, 22 voices together. We have no idea what we’re saying.

During that first philosophy class, we discuss the goal of yoga: to find the true self. “Yoga” comes from “Yoke”, “unite” in sanskrit. Through Yoga, we thrive to unite with our cosmic self. For that, we must free ourselves of the chatter of the mind, of the diktat of the ego, and of the old beliefs (Sanskaras) that hold us back. We live in Maya, illusion, and we are kept there by the Sanskaras, may they be physical (addictions, bad breathing,…) or psychological. On the path to enlightenment, we clean all of that up with the postures (yoga asanas), breathing exercises (pranayama) and meditation. After this class, I keep repeating to myself and everyone around: “You’re in the Maya, Neo! Take the yoga pill and break through the lies.”

I realize that these are new words for what I’ve been doing in therapy for eight years. The quest for enlightenment, in its practical side (the other side is Kundalini energy and supernatural powers, that I don’t get on board with right away), is really what we’ve called the search for happiness and authenticity. “Old beliefs” is one of my therapist’s favorite expressions.

“So you think you’re not allowed to create… What is this called, Hannah?

– An old belief, I know, I know.”

Together, we got me out of the little whole in which I was hiding and eating at myself. Now that I’m not constantly on the edge of the abyss anymore, we explore who I am and how I can be better: when do you feel most centered? When do you feel closest to your truth? What feels right? What, of your old habits, old ways of thinking, vieilles croyances, can you part with next? What is it that doesn’t belong to you?

I’m happy to find a familiar search in a faraway setting, and I am confirmed in my resolve to make this month a time for an Extreme Inner Make-Over. It’s time to decant everything I’ve learnt in my year in Australia, in my relationship and in my travels. It’s time to become the oh so fucking brilliant butterfly.

“OK, so I’m done, do you have questions?” We have just a couple, and Sarva assures us that “Within a week, you’ll be so talkative we won’t fit in the hour. Now it’s time for your juice break.”

 

The first yoga class with Mahi

 

200 Hours Yoga Teacher Training, first two hours.

It’s 7 and white through the window. Mahi is watching us settle in in silence, on the floor with folded legs and a very straight back – his legs are not just crossed, they’re melted together. He sings a mantra, and we clumsily join him for the OMs. “Bow your head down in holy gratitude.” The class begins. Today we learn to stand.

“Press on the outside of your foot, the round of the big toe, press on the heels. Press the heels! Raise your knee-caps, rotate your inner thighs, stand straight up – more up, more up! Tilt your pelvic bone forward. It’s more like this way!”

Standing still in this Indian man’s class might be the hardest work-out of my life. We use the standing technique to deepen each posture. Focus on your alignment, as much weight on each foot, straight back, and the round of the big toe! Stay, stay more. Breathe deeply. My thighs are shaking, I am sweating like a pig. It turns out that even though my legs like to hike in the Malaysian Highlands, they do not like to stay in Warrior Postures – no, please, stop. Breathe. Unsure my muscles can handle much more of this, I can’t help but glance at the digital clock on the floor – it’s been twelve minutes. Only 48 minutes and 199 hours to go.

The Mahi Magic show lays down its ground rules. He quickly decides that Arthur, “the only brave man in the course – because he’s the only man, hahaha!” will be his guinea pig, and that Sarah (a dancer) and Nathalie will be his flexibility demonstrators. He on the other hand will be the main attraction: “Look at me, I’m a seventy-two year-old man, and I can do it!” “No wrinkles on my stomach, because I stand like this!” There’s triumph in his smile every time he says “this!” with a high-pitched voice.

In two hours, he makes me realize how very little I know about alignment and feeling strong in your foundations. And that learning a lot hurts your butt.

 

The joyful routine

(En Français plus bas)

I open my eyes at 6 to see a new friend in bed with me. I sit up, I stretch my arms and she stretches hers with me. We smile at each other: I know she’s here to stay, she knows she’s most welcome. I call her my joyful routine.

Gratitudes and morning prayer, smile to the sky, dance while the shower is warming up – she walks me up the quiet stairs, to the yoga hall.

The month in Baghsu is a story of the two of us, taming each other. With her, I learn to say thank you as soon as I wake up, even (especially) when the rain, pouring on the wall of deep green outside my window, makes me grumble before the day has come. Thank you. Thank you for the rain: it feeds the world. After a dream in which I found myself gross, she tells me “just look”, and I draw myself. I am smoking. Thank you for my body: it allows me to taste the world. Thank you! When I harm my shoulder, she tells me to be kind, patient. She says “pay attention, find what’s good and what you need – to eat, drink, say”. We learn moderation. When I feel hidden by a bushy wall of falseness, she says “check it out, you have the keys”, and I listen. She rocks.

And when I go out to the café in the clouds, when I stay up late to chat with those guys I’m loving more and more, when we watch Louie, Friends, and Disney movies, when I converse in silence with Baba, and when, back to my room, I only have time for one sentence in the Body, Heart and Mind diary, when I skip, when I adapt, when my evening Gratitudes are just a quote from Asterix, she says “do what ever is best for you.” She’s foldable and flexible. We love each other.

With the strength she gives me, I express myself better, and I fall in love, every day a bit more, with myself and each of the 21 magnificent people who surround me and live all of this next to me.

When I leave, I take her along, tall and gorgeous, with my backpack and Magui. In the night trains of India and the streets of Istanbul, in the veranda of the family house, in Berlin, Hamburg and London, and now back home, I let her change me, she lets me forget her – and come back to her. On the Decathlon yoga mat that decorates my room and in the crystal-clear song of the tibetan bowl I brought back from the mountain, she whispers “I’m staying”.

 

*

La routine gaie

J’ouvre les yeux à 6 heures et je trouve une nouvelle amie dans mon lit. Je m’assois, je m’étire, elle s’étire avec moi. On se sourit : je vois qu’elle s’installe, elle se sait accueillie. Je l’appelle ma routine gaie.

Gratitudes, prières du matin, sourire aux cieux, danser en attendant que la douche se réchauffe – elle m’accompagne jusqu’au hall de yoga, en haut des escaliers calmes.

Le mois à Baghsu  c’est l’histoire de nous deux nous apprivoisant. Elle m’apprend à me réveiller reconnaissante même – surtout – quand la pluie sur le mur de verdure par la fenêtre me fait grisailler avant le jour. Merci. Merci pour la pluie qui nourrit le monde. Après un rêve dans lequel je me trouvais laide, elle me dis “regarde” et je me dessine. Je suis une bombe. Merci pour mon corps qui me laisse encore goûter le monde. Merci ! Quand je me blesse l’épaule, elle me dit d’être tendre, patiente. Elle me dit d’être attentive, de voir ce qui me fait du bien, ce que j’ai vraiment besoin de manger, de boire, de dire. On apprend la mesure. Quand je me sens tapie derrière un buisson humide de faux semblants, elle me dit “va voir, tu as les clés” et je l’écoute. Elle est sympa.

Et puis quand je sors au bar dans les nuages, quand je reste à discuter tard avec ces gens que j’aime de plus en plus, quand on regarde Louis, Friends ou des Disney, quand je parle en silence avec Baba, quand je n’ai le temps que pour une phrase dans le body, heart and mind diary, quand je saute, quand j’adapte, quand je me contente de “moi je chante la vie, je danse la vie, je ne suis qu’amour”, en guise de gratitudes du soir, elle dit “fais ce qui est bon pour toi”. Elle se plie, se fait flexible. On s’aime.

Forte d’elle, je me dis mieux, et je tombe amoureuse, chaque jour un peu plus, de moi-même, et des 21 personnes sublimes qui m’entourent et vivent tout ça juste à côté.

En partant je l’emmène, grande et belle, avec mon sac à dos et Magui. Dans les trains de nuit d’Inde et dans les rues d’Istanbul, dans la véranda de la maison familiale, à Berlin, à Hambourg, à Londres, et maintenant de retour chez moi, je la laisse changer, elle me laisse l’oublier et lui revenir. Sur le tapis de yoga décathlon qui décore ma chambre et dans le son cristallin du bol tibétain ramené de ma montagne, elle me murmure “je reste.”

 

The dream – first night of the Yoga Teacher Training

Night between August 4 and 5

It’s the first night in my new room. It’s cold, the bed is damp because the monsoon makes everything humid. I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling. It takes a while before, curled up in a ball, wrapped in my soft blanket and with my eye-mask that says « Keep your shit together » on, I can finally sleep.

But then, I start fighting. I have to wake up. If I don’t… I have to wake up, I need to lock the door. People are walking in. Men. They are threatening. A man. A young Indian boy is by the side of my bed. He is staring down at me. His face is marked, scarred. He is there to scare me. But I know I’m sleeping. I have to wake up, close the door, end this. Let me find the real. The cold, sharp, crazy singing voice of an invisible lady said « No, no, no, no, no! » I asked « Why? »

– Because there’s nothing else, because there’s nothing else! »

I fight enough to half wake up. I am standing at the foot of the bed, and the young child is still there – half there. I struggle to half open my eyes. My sight is blurred. My hand goes right through him. The men are still there. I’m not safe.

Somewhere around there, Johnny Depp is strolling through the morgue.

I finally find my way out and open my eyes, terrified, and I stare at the dark. The door doesn’t lock, I tell my subconscious « Please, believe the door is locked. » and, when I’m ready to go back to sleep, « Please, focus on Johnny Depp. »

My Yoga journey

I started yoga when I was 16. My dad is a practitionner, and one day, I tagged along to one of his classes. My first teacher had a soft voice that carried me far, far away during each end-of-class relaxation. She taught me breathing, posture and massages. Yoga was, for those first two years, a life jacket. I had always told myself that I sucked at sports. I felt I couldn’t do anything with this body, it was ugly, useless. I hated it, both its appearance and the overall experience of being in it. Yoga brought a tiny bit of tenderness into this mix. It taught me do something else with my flesh home than to despise it, it taught me to focus on my toes, on my nostrils, my perrineum and my stomach muscles, because they deserved the attention. It taught me to forget the fat, the pimples and the cellulite, at least for an hour a week.

I also started therapy when I was 16, with a wonderful woman who happened to be a yogi. She gave me breathing exercices, and helped me climb the hill of body acceptance. Seeing her meant that even when I wasn’t attending classes, yoga was with me, always, from the first time I caught the magic bug 7 years ago.

When I started uni, I took Pilates, because the yoga classes were full. I loved my teacher so much that I didn’t think of finding another yoga class for the next two years. He was a Columbian dancer who giggled for five minutes when we told him that « frog », in French, is « grenouille ». When he made us do wide circles in the air with our feet he would say, with a happy saddistic tone « Imagine that you’re mixing the dough for a delicious chocolate cake. You want it… All the chocolate. It hurts, doesn’t it? Ça fait mal, hein ? »

Between the first and second years of uni, I spent a month in Tel Aviv for an internship. I got myself a discounted unlimited pass for the gym, 5 minutes away from my the apartment, and took 8 hours a week of yoga and pilates. I’d go there early and read Romain Gary on the rooftop. That teacher was a tall woman with an impressive head of curly auburn hair. She hugged her students hello and goodbye, and she tried to say some of the instructions in English when she saw that my glimpses of notions of Hebrew had failed me and I hadn’t moved on from the downward facing dog with everyone else.

During my year in Italy, I attented a yoga class at the college gym, taught by one of the least enthusiastic beings I have ever encountered. She gave us instructions in a slow, monotone voice, and got frustrated at me when my Italian wasn’t good enough and I bended a leg instead of an arm. I gave the class up, and went to zumba and African dance instead. I spent my yoga energy on sitting in silence in my large room in the student area of Rome, and breathing.

When I came back, I found a gym and yet another teacher. From her, I remember the class opening in gomukasana (the cow face posture), and the closing with singing bowls and triangles. She made us sing Om, and she gave the best massages. I was sad to leave her classes when I headed to Australia.

There, I attended only a few classes over the year, because yoga is expensive, and the groupon coupons were rare. At the gym, the teacher used a mike and techno music – I ran away. Towards the end of the year, I found a studio of « Power Yoga ». When I attended the first class, I thought it was called that because yoga gives you power – it’s that simple, isn’t it? So I headed there without a change of clothes, ready to relax. I got out of it wearing a pool of my own sweat, and I kept at it for a fortnight. One of the teachers was a man in his mid-forties with a limp. He spent the whole class talking about himself and about us, about how hard we are on ourselves and how he finally allowed himself to buy that bike he’d wanted for so long. He sounded like the wisest of lunatics, cynical yet hopeful, funny yet serious. He said Utkatasana with a crazy tone in his voice – UUUUT-kataaasana. I still laugh to myself everytime I ask a student to get into that posture. UUUUT-kataaaaasana.

I had always enjoyed giving mini yoga classes to my friends, teaching them what I had learnt, taking them through a relaxation or a breathing exercice. I dreamed of becoming a yoga teacher, without entirely beliving that I could. At the end of my year in Australia, I decided to give it a shot. I researched for some time, checked and double-checked, took a deep breath, and booked. After that final click of the online pre-payment, I spent a few days jumping everywhere and high-fiving the universe in excitment. I am going to India to learn to be a yoga teacher!

When I started travelling, I took to the internet and found YouTube classes (Yoga with Adrienne is great). I did a few sessions of yoga with travel friends, on the beach, at sunset or at sunrise.

When I arrived at the training, I hadn’t practiced in almost two months. My back was exhausted from the backpack and the nights in horrible buses in Vietnam. I felt unprepared, I had made peace with the idea that I probably wouldn’t graduate as a yoga teacher. I was happy, nonetheless, to finally learn more about that thing that had been in my heart for years. I wanted to know what lays behind the poses and the breathing, to deepen my understanding and my practice, to learn to make it a bigger part of my life, and to be better at teaching my friends and family.

Tool-kit to heal and make the most out of my yoga teacher training

On the 4^th of August, at 21:21, I start the first journal entry of my yoga training. I note that my body has been speaking to me since I arrived: it’s been hard to breathe and to sit still, there’s a lump in my throat and resentment in my back. I need to write these down. I need to remember how I feel, now, because it’s going to change drastically. Because I am seeing, living and feeling through a triple filter, brand new, unique, short-lived and only available in a limited edition of 1: that of the suffering from the break-up, the trip still boiling inside me and the yoga in intensive learning, in India, in a buddhist and hindu village in the Himalayas, with people from everywhere in the world!

I decide to give myself tools to help me heal and grow during this month.

1. I will write a Heart, Body and Mind diary, to follow the evolution of my sadness, my physical aches and strength, and my spirituality;

2. I will write a prayer every morning, to say thank you, send love all around and give an intention to my day; 

3. I will end each prayer with a smile and a power pause (and I’ll make it a rule to dance in the shower);

4. I will write gratitudes every evening;

5. I will write down every positive feedback I get, to warm up my little ego, cracked by the guilt.

I want to learn to be kinder to myself and to have a healthier routine. I want to find my way back to a sense of perpetual wonder. To judge myself less and be in relation with others in a more meaningful, mindful and centered way.

I am grateful for my sadness that means I have loved. I am grateful for my sadness that means I can still feel – the depression isn’t back. For all my memories with Michael and all the ways he helped me grow. Because he’s still here, and we can still be honest with each other, even if it hurts. For all the people I met traveling and the friendship that, I am sure, will last. For my friends from home and my family. For this Indian month, opening. For not giving up on coming. For the lovely people and the tasty food. For my body, functioning, and my mind, alive. For this pen and this notebook.

21:42

India, day 3: the new Baghsu home and the opening ceremony

August 4

I wake up on a bus climbing a mountain road in the early morning light, in India. It’s raining. There are red, orange, yellow and green triangular flags in the trees.

A guy from the yoga training picks us up at the bus station, stacks my bag on top of the car, and we’re off. I ask Kate and Arthur where their bags are, and they casually point at the two black backpacks, smaller than my second backpack – the one I use for my book, my laptop and my water bottle. That’s what they’ve packed for a year away.

The car enters a thin street bordered with shops on each side. I register, slightly confused, that all the signs are in Hebrew. The car goes as far up as it can, and then we walk. We take some stairs, and a tiny tunnel with a muddy floor. I think « soon, I’ll be used to this weird-ass tunnel ». The soft rain makes the trees sing. On our right, the green and the little houses go down into the white mist.

On our left, the mountain keeps going up, with buildings here and there. Here is the « Siddhi Yoga – Yoga Teacher Training » sign.

Forrest Hill, that I would soon call home, is not the temple-like zen building I had expected. It’s recent, but slightly worn out, and it seems made of mismatched material. The hall has a big empty desk in it. On the right, a set of stairs go up, another goes down. It’s a bit dark. An Indian lady welcomes us and takes us to our rooms, down the corridor. Arthur and Kate are staying opposite from me.

When the door opens, I am close to asking how many people will be sharing this room. The bed is big enough for four at least. I have a bedside table, a coffee table, a wardrobe and a chair (a chair!). And my own bathroom! The tall windows look out on a wall of green, dropping with rain. I thank the lady with the fervor of someone only too used to bunkbeds and rows of shared showers.

When the door closes, I feel left in the darkness. The bed is slightly damp. I roll myself up in the soft blanket and I close my eyes. Hopefully I won’t feel that shitty the whole month. Hopefully I’ll manage to talk to people. Hopefully, I’ll get out of this bed at some point. But not just, now, not just yet. Misery and sleep come first.

Around 3pm, my body tentatively reminds me that I haven’t eaten anything since dinner, and that even if we’re grieving a beautiful relationship, it’s no reason to starve ourselves. Get up, Hannah. Get out. You’re in the Himalayas.

I crawl out of bed and back to the entrance, where I meet a few other girls. We decide to eat out. We find a hippie-looking café where we sit on the floor, on colorful pillows. Bob Marley is playing. Bob Marley is painted on the walls.

I start learning names and backstories.

Jane is British, and teaches children yoga already. She has a very contagious smile and a glorious laugh. She has been here the longest: she arrived four days early, and attended the final exams for the group that came before us. « They seemed so happy! We’re going to be like this soon. »

Anne is from Melbourne, and her parents are from Vietnam. She works in a bank and is learning to become a personal trainer.

Sarah is a dance student in London, originally from Germany. Her hair is bleached very white, she sits very straight, she looks feirce.

With long blond hair and a sweet smile, Lena from Denmark looks like a fairy.

Sabine from Switzerland has been biking around the world for months.

Nathalie from South Africa is a vegan chef. She has a long, beautifully designed fork tattooed on one forearm, and a knife on the other.

I try to connect and to engage, to listen to the yoga backstories, but I feel far away, I feel like I’m at the edge of myself. It seems like all conversations have to lead to a question to which the answer is « I just broke up with my partner ». So I cry, of course, I cry so well, so why should I stop? I say sorry, I’m such a bummer, and they say « no, of course, not. If there’s a place where you won’t be judged for how you feel, I think it’s here! » I get my hand squeezed and my shoulder hugged. So I smile. I laugh. We chat. They’re beautiful.

On the way out, I run into a bare-chested, barefoot man, with long dreads decorated with pearls and shells, a walking stick and baba pants. He gives me a broad, startlingly direct smile. A big, open mouth, happy smile, with a deep stare into my eyes. I smile back, just as deep. The wrinkles on the sides of his eyes are laughing. He points at my shaved hair and gives me a thumb’s up. He gestures that it must take no time to wash it: « scrub head, smack hands, done! ». He’s nodding with big movements, I’m laughing, I point at his dreads, and gesture that they’re not bad either. He gestures to all of me, head to feet, and gives me another thumb’s up. « I love your style, dude. », said without words. I’m laughing, I thank him, he squeezes my hand, I leave him feeling like I made a new friend.

A magic man

We walk up the hill to head back home. The opening ceremony starts in a few minutes. We climb the stairs, out of breath, saying « Maybe in a month we’ll be used to those stairs. » (we never got used to those stairs).

We have to wear white for the opening ceremony. Jane lends me her extra top and, when I tell her how much I love it, says « it’s yours! ».

I’m nervous. We’re sitting together at the table in the main room, upstairs, chatting away before it starts. I meet Ariane, the other French girl. She’s surprised to not be the only one: « My friends don’t understand why I went all the way to India for this. I thought it was a French thing to not be into these things. » I guess I’m not the typical French person either. The room has large windows leading onto another fog-eaten, breath-taking mountain view.

We are gathered, sitting in a circle around the indoors fire. The opening ceremony begins. It left in my memory an enchanting blur of colours, smells and incantations. Prayers to Ganesha. Two men and a woman sing in Hindi and throw spices and red and yellow powders into the fire. I’m hypnotised by the flames. I smile wide – I can feel this is important. A red thread is tied on our wrists, a red mark is applied to our foreheads. It’s a beginning. One of the men walks around the circle with fire in a bowl, and, one after the other, each member of the circle gestures from the fire up to their closed eyes. I am moved to watch each person invent their own version of this personal and meaningful act. Close your eyes and bring your hands up, from the fire to your face. Inhale. It looks vulnerable and true. We each throw two different handfuls of spices into the fire. Carried away by the songs and hypnotized by the flames, I watch each of these strangers’ face, and I smile. « We’re gonne love each other. » I feel warm, suprised at how sure I am. At the same time, my body is troubled: there is a distinct pain in my heart, I can’t sit comfortably, I’m struggling to find my breath. A very clear image of Michael at the airport pokes me, saying « Don’t ever stop talking to me » with my face in his hands. I tell myself it’s good that I am so emotional: it means I take everything in better. We’re fed a sweet, brown mash, that we eat with our fingers.

All the pictures in this mosaic are by Siddhi Yoga

I’m dazzled and buzzing with a sudden happiness when we sit together in the yoga hall. I am here, and this has started. The chairs laid in rows in the large, brown carpeted room, are simple pillows on the floor, with backs in the colors of Siddhi Yoga. I sit in the first row, Ariane is next to me. The teachers introduce themselves: Doctor Amrita is the anatomy teacher, Mahi will teach Therapeutic yoga, Sarva and Anil teach Hatha Yoga, Niddhi is in charge of Art of Teaching, Jayo of meditation, Ufaz, from Israel, is an assistant teacher. Lenka, from Czek Republic, is the admin. They tell us about the classes we’re going to take – the schedule will be posted on the wall each week – and that it’s going to change us. That we should pay attention to what our bodies are telling us and to have an open mind to let as much in as possible. « Yoga is the discovery of the self through the self. So please, forget everything you know. » They tell us we are a family.

One after the other, we say our names, origin, and talk about our yoga history. It’s slightly nerve-wracking, but I try to believe that everyone is facing me with as much love as I’m sending them. 19 ladies and one guy from France, England, Romania, Germany, Switzerland, India, South Africa, the US, Iceland, Australia, Denmark: I meet my yoga family (two more girls would arrive in the next few days).

All the pictures in this mosaic are by Siddhi Yoga

Dinner is served. It smells magnificent: I love cumin. On the wall behind the long table, an old sheet of paper says « Observe silence during the meals ». Thankfully, we start ignoring it from day one.

It’s barely 8 when everyone starts heading back to the rooms. I wrap myself in my soft blanket with a warm heart, and I open my Indian notebook.